Dear Rome,

Dear Rome,

My experience of you is as follows:

1) You have a lot of falling down buildings. Clean up your act - a bit of timber, plaster and nails will go a long way.

2) Traffic laws hardly exist. I was playing 'chicken' with traffic and didn't even know it.

3) I felt bad taking a wee at The Vatican. Nonetheless, I thought my atheist wee might eat away those holy loos.

4) Tourists should keep their farts to themselves at the Sistine Chapel.

5) When people are wearing green stickers while listening to a tour guide, they have paid for said tour. Strategically placing your hand over the general location of said green sticker only makes you look like a cheap, thieving tourist, Chunky Munky.

6) I'm sorry I was a bit rude to that group of Americans. I just found it quite sad that the leader of your church, the physical embodiment of Christ on earth, denounced the Iraq war and you didn't listen to him. You paid more attention to a halfwit who resembles a monkey. And not even a nice monkey - like my lovely cute monkey brethern. If I were religious, I think I'd choose to follow somebody who was chosen by God than somebody who was chosen by that corrupt lot in Florida. But that's just me. And when the Pope lit a candle for peace, your scowls screamed your unnerving hypocrisy. You scared me, and thus I was mean to you.

7) I had the best meal of my entire life. There were 7 courses and each one contained lobster. My Jewish husband nearly imploded with the religious consequences of eating shellfish near The Vatican.

8) The hotel experience deserves a post of its very extra special own.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Rome was actually quite ace.

Dear all,

Dear all,

The following is, like, the WAY most important thing to have happened in my life recently. No, really.

Sunday was a Designer Warehouse Sale, where women gather to buy designer clothing and be bitchy to eat other. It was real 'Handbags at Dawn' material. There was a communal changing room, which was a whirlwind of norks, minge and designer threads. It is fodder for boyhood masturbation. For women, though, it is a chance for a 'model-off'. Who can sway their hips the best? Who has the least amount of cellulite (not her, *snigger* *bitch*)? Who has the best posture? I, on the other hand, wore foul underpants and couldn't be arsed to shave. I was the furry, pale pervert in the corner, people-watching these freaks with low self-esteem who make themselves feel better by being mean to people.

One girl swayed over to me, hands on hips, "I like that dress, what size is it." (Notice, that wasn't a question, it was a statement of low self-esteem.) "An 8."
"Hrph, let me try it on."
"Erm, OK, but I am going to buy it."
"Hrph."
"Hrph!"
"HRPHHH!!!"

Honestly, she couldn't even zip up the damned thing (nevermind the fact that the dress was rather cruel to her breasts, which seemed to want nothing more than to break free), but she stood in front of the mirror, inspecting herself with such overwhelming satisfaction that she covered the room in a fine film of awe.

"I think I am going to get it."

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

She didn't, of course. It was merely a bitchy mind trick to make me believe that she looked so amazingly superbly fantastic in this garment and I, so shit and root vegetable-like, that I should create a frilly shrine to her beauty and poise.

Love,
Munky

P.S. I know that didn't fit with my usual style. But don't worry - the misanthropic vitriol is still there!

Dear Everybody,

Come to 'Munky's Big Fuck Off Party'.

Munky's coming home to Michigan, baby.

Love,

Munky

P.S. Free ass-tags all around.

Dear My Head,

Dear My Head,

When you explode, could you make sure you aim my skull fragments at annoying people's jugulars?

Ta,

Munky

P.S. By annoying people, I mean everybody.

Dear Dr. Death,

Dear Dr. Death,

I shitted up my back. Can you help?

Ta,

Munky

P.S. Can I pay by check?

Dear tea-thieving tea thieves (pt 2),

Dear Tea-Thieving Tea Thieves (pt 2),

I noticed that you've now decided to eat my cranberries and my gluten-free bread. Accordingly, you are now also eating my pubic hair.

Yum yum,

Munky

Dear Chris Evans,

I saw you taking that morning-after walk of shame.

You are obviously stalking me and want to be my babydaddy.

Hahahahahahahaaa! You ging twat loser.

Yours,

Munky

P.S. On second thought, please be my babydaddy. Munky wants more shoes. Fur shoes.

Dear The Pope,

Dear The Pope,

I like you. Your head is all smushy.

Ta,

Munky

Dear My Tapeworm,

Dear My Tapeworm,

Although I am not certain if you exist, I'll keep feeding you coffee 'cause I'm pretty sure you like it.

Huggies,

Munky

P.S. I think I'll name you 'MacGyver'.

Dear Fantasy Football 'Managers',

Dear Fantasy Football 'Managers',

Must you derive such a sense of self-worth out of your 'fantasy' score?

Let me remind you that I picked my players solely based on their rilly nifty haircuts and I'm nearly doing as well as you. You big men, you.

Love,

Munky
xoxoxoxox

Dear Skanky Nasty Woman on The Tube...

Dear Skanky Nasty Woman on The Tube,

Yelling "FEEEEEEKK OFF!" while allowing your child to shit in a newspaper NEXT TO ME does not make you a Good Mother, no matter your drunken, unintelligible protests.

Luv,

Munky

xxx

Dear The Man Who Lives Beneath Me...

Dear The Man Who Lives Beneath Me...

I've noticed that you have very very very loud sex. I'd just like to say Big Up Your Cock!

Despite, what are the power tools for? That's just creepy.

Luv,

Munky

P.S. I've also seen the hookers.

Dear 'Children in Need'...

Children do not need to watch this shit.

Kisses,

Munky

Dear Marzipan,

Being stuck to a cake does not real cake icing make.

Please take note and fepp off back to the 70s.

Thanks,
Munky

Dear Sweat Glands...

You’re not impressing anyone with your constant dribbliness. You’re like an old man’s wang… and who’d want an old man’s wang stuck under their armpit? Not me, that’s who! My clothes would also request that you stop using them as some kind of cashmere jumper to cry on. If you have problems, go and seek help from your brethren instead. Go ask my pituitary glands for advice. Or my lymph nodes. But don’t take it out on my fine, tailored garments.

Piss off, in other words, until the summer. When I will require you to stop me dying of heat-stroke. Your working in the winter does not mean I am be impressed by your splendid work-rate and diligence. It merely means I smell.

Thank you,

Munky xx

Dear Mr Young Buck

Thank you for (allegedly) going bonkers with a knife at this week’s Vibe Awards. It was quite exciting, and awards ceremonies like this need to be glitzed up a bit by the occassional bit of eeeerk-ness! When you get released from prison (alleged, blah, blah), could you please go on to stab whoever decided that the Number 29 bus should never stop along Camden Road in the mornings, whoever is responsible for my having a big, swollen spot / zit (delete according to your nationality) on my nose and Geri Halliwell, who was fucking rude to my friend this week. Thank you.

PS: could you stab 50 Cent as well, please? I know he’s your homie and everything, but he upsets my ears. And he won’t mind being stabbed because he’s dead hard and stuff, and it will help him sell more records anyway. In fact, stab him in 11 places including through his mouth. Stab him in the exact same places where he was shot. Or not shot, depending on your belief in the machine we like to call hype. Think of it as a join-the-dots painting or something.

Ta!

Love,

Munky xx

Dear Mr...

Dear Mr. BMW-driving cunthead who parks in MY off-street parking spot,

The little brown pellets you keep finding in your car? They're rat poos. They came out of my pet rat's anus.

Deal with it or move your car.

Love,
Munky

Dear tea-thieving tea thieves,

Dear tea-thieving tea thieves,

Placing a sign on my tea does not make you the rightful owner.

Accordingly, I have licked my palms and touched all of my teabags. I hope you get all my diseases.

Love,
Munky